Pathos
by ChaosAme
Summary: The story of Tseng as a young child, a young Turk, and a sociopathic creature beyond his years.
1. Chapter 1: Naivety

Voices trailed after him. Heated, growling, low and deadly, like the smaller monsters of the outskirts. But he knew the territory; he knew its streets and alleys, knew every backdoor and manhole. They were on _his_ turf, and he wasn't afraid of them. Not one bit.

He knew they would come for him, just like he knew that someday he would be taken up, beaten, have his hands cut off street-manner for stealing. He'd be a poor, wretched beggar his whole life, unless he shaped up and learned how to fight. That's what made them come after him, he was sure, thinking over it as he sat huddled in the ruins of an abandoned middle-city shack. Once he'd gotten a name for himself, his round face and dark, shimmering eyes now instantly recognisable - the _Ghost_, disappearing in the span of a blink, aura-less, intangible. No one could catch him, and the one time they did he fought back. Worse than an alleycat, only slightly bigger but so much more dangerous. He'd clawed their eyes out, first. The two who'd come forward after him. The other three weren't so lucky. Jiao-long ticked them off mentally. One - shattered hand, broken shin; compound fracture. Rather bloody. Two - snapped neck. Much cleaner. Three...well, three only took a few steps out of the alley before he fell over from blood loss. Jiao-long was a dangerous child, and the men in the suits knew it.

The muscles in the back of his neck tensed, his bent legs readying instinctively to launch him, as the sound of the men stopping too near for comfort reached his keen ears. _He's a kid, for fuck's sake! Just find him!_ Oh, but they knew. The chorus of _Yes, sir!_s knew. The scrambling of feet, a light shuffling Jiao-long envied, and they were left alone together. Just the two of them. _Tch_. What idiots. They'd be one man down soon.

One tiny hand reached out and silently balanced him forward just slightly, changing his centre of gravity, as the crunch of dirt, glass, city sidewalk heralded the slow, measured steps of the approaching suit. A change in pace, from the racing, heart-clenching, fearful chase. Now it was this man, this man in the starched collar with the gun. Him, and Jiao-long's instincts.

He waited for the shoe to come into his vision, his hole low to the ground allowing for a perfect exit point for an exquisite roll. Between the man's legs, and behind, as he'd taken a step forward. A startled gunshot, the man's sharp curse, and a cry of _Get him!_ And the chase resumed. Jiao-long leaped forward, barrel-rolling under a decrepit old cart just before the swiftest of the men crashed down on it. He could feel the cold of a predator behind him, knew their hearts beat in tandem with his own, each breath a clipped, measured prelude, only to be caught once they could pause. They were there, they were beside him, behind him, all around him, kicking up dirt and grime as he pushed his small, starved body to its brink, and skidded to one side into a tiny, dark crack. No hesitation. The nearest one sent his body flying through it, and Jiao-long turned to stare down the barrel of a gun. His heart skipped a beat, and he stopped. Now, now was the time to catch his breath.

"Finished running, kid?" The man's voice was rough, rough like the stubble across his cheeks, where he hadn't had time to trim his beard that day. They'd been busy chasing him, he knew: he was a handful. Two other men flanked him, guns trained on him, one the man who had been beside him. He stood out the most, and was the one Jiao-long's eyes went to as he measured his situation. A stern, hard face, yielding to eyes of dark, dangerous acid green and a shock of orange hair. Unnatural orange. The man fronting them made a noise. Predictably, Jiao-long blinked back at him.

There was a long, pregnant silence. One of the men nearer the back cocked his gun, and Jiao-long flinched at the sound. He didn't recognise it, didn't know guns like he knew knives and fists and feet. He took a moment to recuperate, blinking wide eyes around them, before looking back up at the insufferably blank face of the man with the beard. It only took a second to return that look, and even less time for it to become blase. Narrowed eyes narrowed, glinting like steel under long, boyish lashes. This was his life. This was his game.

"I don't like you."

The man blinked. Actually blinked, in something like astonishment. The man with the orange hair made a sound of derision, and re-aimed his gun. Jiao-long merely glanced at him, before returning his cool gaze to the bearded one, who was now standing in full shock before him. Had he not understood him? Jiao-long knew his words were heavily accented, and could very well be wrong. He was never good with speaking. Something in the bearded man's eyes brightened, and a smile grew on his face. And then...he laughed. Jiao-long started, but maintained his cool exterior, as the man kept his gun trained on him and laughed for all he was worth. The orange-haired man was looking at him in disbelief now, and the man on his other side moved forward slightly - a shifting in the shadows. Jiao-long stared.

"Kid, you really are something." Laughter led into chuckles, a low sound that died without warning, as the man uncocked his gun and stepped back. The man shook his head, and addressed those around him. "It looks to me, boys," he stated with an amused cock of his head, "that we have a _con_ on our hands." His demeanour suddenly changed, the smile falling off his face as he turned his back and took a step through the ranks. "Nobody speak to him." But before they could come forward, the instant the guns were off him, Jiao-long was off again. They had him. He gaped, stunned. He hadn't even seen them move. The orange one cocked him a half-smile, as if he could read his thoughts, and blatantly disobeyed the words of the man who must have been his superior.

"Welcome ta Shinra."

He had struggled the entire way; he wasn't going down without a fight. By the time they wrestled him in through the front doors, the meagre clothing he was wearing barely clung to him. The man with the orange hair shoved him down by his shoulders, paying no attention as his fellows walked past them, and patiently rearranged the torn, greyed bits of cloth. More like pillowcases; what seemed to be an old shirt, much too big for the small child, with its sleeves torn off, and a muddy pair of trousers tattered so badly at the bottom that they were more like shorts. No shoes, though. Just a pair of scarred and dirty feet. The man with the red hair shook his head, and sighed, and fretted over him in a way no one ever had. Then he picked him up, flung him over his shoulder, and with a half-assed, "Let's get 'cha clean, squirt," carried him unmoving into the building.

The phrase held no meaning to Jiao-long. Once inside, he was set down, and a pair of men in blue and silver with helmets that covered their eyes came around him. The orange man stepped to one side, and the two others - SOLDIERs, Jiao-long was sure - took up the other two escape routes. Apparently they didn't expect him to dash forward. Well, they were right there, at least. He was too busy being stunned. Eyes huge and all-too-admiring, it took a nudge in the back by one of the men's guns to make him move.

"Easy," was the response from the suit. Then forward, up stairs and stairs and stairs. Up so many stairs Jiao-long thought they had to be close to hitting the sky by now. Third floor, and an elevator, one SOLDIER stepping in before him, the three surrounding him once more in the cramped quarters. The man's hand on his shoulder, though now he knew he could not run. Where would he go? With the world falling down and down and down around him, how would he ever get back to the ground, even? An age, forever, and then the doors came open, and they stepped out onto low, dark blue carpet. Small ShinRa Co. logos every few steps. The SOLDIERs stayed in the elevator, and Jiao-long turned to gaze back at them as they were left behind, before the man who still held his shoulder gently turned him forward once more.

The endless hallway was lined with doors, some open, most closed. There were connecting hallways in a few places, which offered glimpses of yet another long hall opposite the floor from the one they were in. Jiao-long stared openly, at the stark, businesslike colours and decorations, at the men sitting in their rooms. They passed one cleaning a gun on his bed who stared at them with the look of a starved dog out for meat. Another sitting at a cluttered desk cramped into his small room, who paid them no attention whatsoever as he barked into a PHS and ruffled papers here and there. A young woman sorting laundry, a huge poster in the back of her room with boxes and letters and colours all arranged neatly together. The dark shape from earlier, who had proven to be a man, though a very scarred man. The right half of his face was totally maimed; his eye scarred shut, ridges and slashes creating a landscape in white and pink over naturally tan skin. The muscles on that side of his face were dead, Jiao-long knew; he'd seen it in the car on the way over, and had stared. Now the man spared him only a passing glance, as he undressed from the casual mission. The hand on his shoulder slipped off, and with the slide of a keycard a door was held open for him. He turned into the room, and stumbled back as a puffball of bright red came hurtling toward the open door and into the arms of the man beside him.

"DA!" it screamed at the top of its lungs, and Jiao-long barely registered that the scarred man next door had also flinched before his own door was shut quietly. "Da I missed you guess what nana came over an' she said Rufey said -"

"Okay, okay," the man laughed in response, obviously amused at the child's inability to break between sentences. "Da's still on the clock, so sit tight an' go play ya games fer a little while longer, okay?" There was something about the way this man spoke that was hard for Jiao-long to interpret. An accent, he registered, though he didn't recognise it. The round thing, a tiny boy, sucked on his fingers some and quieted the instant he saw Jiao-long looking up at him. _Suspicion_, Jiao-long knew; he recognised it. Even in children so small, he knew it well. Silence once more as the child was set down, urged off to one corner, and the man with the orange hair came back to shut the door and lead Jiao-long into a small bathroom. Jiao-long stopped outside the door of the place, as the man turned on the water and found a towel.

"Come in here, take off your clothes." A different creature entirely than the one who had been laughing and loving the red child in the other room. Jiao-long merely stared. He'd never seen a place like this before. He'd only known water from rusty taps on the streetsides, and only to clean off something dangerous or sticky or... And now this man wanted him to strip? Jiao-long's eyes narrowed in suspicion. He knew what people wanted when they asked for you naked. Silently, falling back into the manner of a street-bred killer, he glared and stood his ground. The man turned off the water, the tub only half-filled since he knew the kid would flail, and stepped forward with a bleached-white towel. He could have blended in like a chameleon without his suit and hair. Bleached-white walls, bleached-white towels, bleached-white ceramic, bleached-white tile. And now he was glaring right back.

"Kid, I don' wanna have to fight 'cha yet." _Yet_. He couldn't think for a second that Jiao-long hadn't caught that. And now that he knew what he was there for - did that smaller child serve this purpose too? - he wasn't about to back down. The man sighed after only a moment, set the towel down. He unbuttoned his blazer and slipped out of it, folding it neatly and placing it over the edge of the sink. Undid the cuffs of his shirt and laid them in the exact middle of the folded blazer. Rolled up the pressed sleeves, and loosened and slipped out of his tie in seconds. Once the last bit of silk had joined its fellows in a neat, perfect pile, he moved forward a step. Jiao-long tensed, centred himself. And like that, once more, it was over. The man had him pinned back against his now-kneeling body, one arm around his neck as his free hand literally ripped the tattered cloths off him. He didn't even have time to react, only flailed fruitlessly as he was picked up and tossed bodily into the water. It splashed everywhere, violently, and Jiao-long was sure he heard the small child rooting for this man as he forced him under the water and pulled him back up, sitting him shivering and totally shocked against the back of the tub. The man sat back and eyed him.

"There. Don' make me do it again. I don' like pickin' on people ain't mah own size." Jiao-long merely stared at him, eyes huge and gleaming. In...water? In massive amounts of water? What for? Arms still hugging his shivering form, he gazed down at the pool he sat in. There was the sound of something snapping sharply, but before he could even look up the man's hands were shoved into his hair, and Jiao-long began to flail once more. Rough fingers massaged his scalp, digging all over, as a warmth moved over his skin. What was he doing! "Kid - hold _still_!" He was shoved down again, a little less roughly, and stopped moving, begrudgingly. Whatever he was doing, though odd, seemed fairly harmless for now. Not worth the fight. The man reached for a cup by the side of the tub, scooped a generous amount of water into it, and began to carefully rinse out Jiao-long's hair.

"There, see? 'S jes' like gettin' a showa' from the street faucets. 'Cept 'lot less people starin', wantin' some'in' outta ya." Jiao-long watched as the stream of soapy water, dark with grime, rolled over the man's hand that had been placed before his eyes. Careful indeed. He sniffed. "I'm Evander," he introduced as he sat back, placing the cup on the floor by him and reaching for a large hairbrush. He continued conversationally as he worked stubborn, years-old knots from Jiao-long's hair. The boy sat still and silent. "I work fa' Shinra. Department of Administrative Research. Turks. An' truth be told, I'm not the one supposed to be watchin' over ya. But they wanted ya cleaned up an' all, an' I...well, I'm not about to let 'em beat 'cha first night, when ya not even clean or nothin'." Jiao-long flinched, as the hairbrush caught, and the man - Evander - apologised softly. "What about 'chu? Ya gotta name?" Jiao-long sat still for a long moment. The way this man spoke, his inflection, made it difficult for him to catch all of his words. Midgarian wasn't a language he was fluent in yet. He understood alright that the man wanted his name, though. Why, he had no idea, but he wasn't about to give in to him. Evander sighed, and left the task of burshing his hair to lather and wash it once more.

"Look, if ya don' wanna tell me, I'm not gonna force ya. Thing is, if ya do, _they_ won' have ta force ya. And they're not nearly as nice as I am. I promise." Another pause, as Evander rinsed his hair and began to run his fingers through it. Thick, silky, smooth, and dark, under all that. He was definitely a beautiful youth, as they all must have been able to tell, even looking at him in the state he had been in. Evander shook his head. "How does a kid like you end up-"

"Zheng Jiao-long." Evander paused, hesitated, and leaned down some to attempt meeting the kid's eyes. They were down, however, his arms still wrapped protectively around himself and his head bowed low. A small smile crossed Evander's face, and he nodded.

"A'ight, then," he said, sitting back up to work more on Jiao-long's hair. "Zheng Jiao-long. Nice ta meet 'cha." Jiao-long cringed at the pronunciation of his name by this man's strange speech, but said nothing. Neither did Evander. He'd gotten what he needed, and it wasn't his job to entertain young kids. At least, not for the Turks. The small creature who had snuck so easily over to stand in the doorway, fingers in his mouth as he blinked large teal eyes at Jiao-long, was his only real responsibility. For now.

Once clean, Jiao-long let Evander lead him out of the tub, dry him off as uninvasively as possible, and followed the man into the other room, where a set of clothing was laid out for him. Black pants that slid in Jiao-long's fingers like water, as Evander pulled him back and shoved a sleeveless black shirt of the same material over his head. Before he could move to do the same with the pants, however, Jiao-long moved away from him, shooting daggers from his eyes at the man as he stood back and watched him finish dressing with a look of utter skepticism. He moved away after only a moment, however, and Jiao-long listened to him usher the red-haired child into another room, talk to him for a moment, move off to the bathroom, and emerge a second later pulling on his jacket. Jiao-long actually stopped as, in the span of a blink, the man had performed three sharp movements and managed to lay the jacket onto himself perfectly.

"Well, ya' comin' or what?" Evander offered, the tiniest of smirks playing at the edges of his eyes, something Jiao-long easily recognised as pride. Hesitantly, he followed the man to the door, where he was bowed out, eyes down momentarily. As he looked back up, however, he started violently, and moved back into an offensive posture, only to be stopped against Evander's legs.

"Not this time, Zheng Jiao-long." That voice...was it really the voice of the man who had just taken care of him in his apartments? The rough scrape in the lowest tone of those words, his accent rougher and more clipped into sharp syllabic rhythm, where in those few words his entire being seemed to exude a dark cloud of something Jiao-long recognised instantly. A split-second, and he'd turned, ready to strike the man with the orange hair, but as every time before, he was snatched into a binding hold before he could so much as think. It was then that, in the clutches of the first real monsters he'd ever seen, Jiao-long screamed.


	2. Chapter 2: Placidity

Initiation. It was the only word they'd spoken as they carried him away that Jiao-long could say he honestly didn't understand. But if this was its meaning, then it was synonymous with one other word he knew:

_Hell._

Jiao-long's ears were bleeding. He could tell not only from the feel of warmth dripping from the side of his face, but the numbness inside and all over the appendages, the stinging, pulsing pain in his head, and the particular tone of ringing. It had happened twice before, both times in the desert, heat and dehydration ripping through his small body as he dodged between the miniature sandstorms the desert devils kicked up every time they moved. He knew this, just as he knew his right wrist was broken, the bone sticking through and tearing his skin with every minute movement he attempted to cease. His lower ribs were badly bruised, if not already cracked, every short, quick gasp resulting in sharp pain shooting through his gut, into his chest, his back, his shoulders. His left foot was crushed, more a memory of the way the sharp boot-heel that had slammed into it than an actual feeling of pain. The same man - or so he guessed - had also artfully dislocated the last two fingers of his left hand, leaving his nerves buzzing with a dull ache that spiked in frequency into a sharp jolt though his whole hand and arm as it spasmed sporadically. As well, he had crushed Jiao-long's nose into his face, making the already struggling breaths even worse, as he hated the taste of his own blood. And the larger artery in his leg, which had been more of a threat than anything, was only kept from bleeding out by the serrated knife that someone had stuck deep into it, at the perfect angle to keep it there while Jiao-long struggled. At least, for as long as he'd been able to struggle.

And slowly, one man behind him to bind his arms, one to hold his head, one at his feet, they spread him out between them, sent those warming pulses of electricity through each wound - after setting them, of course - and then lay him back down, tightened his blindfold, and stood back to do it all over again.

"Say it again," they prompted, someone spitting to the side before toeing him almost _eagerly_. "In _Midgarian_ this time." If they hadn't emphasised enough that his dirty self, his dirty eyes, his dirty skin and dirty tongue were most of the reason they were being so hard on him, that was the knife in the gut. No - the real slice of metal had been.

Jiao-long found himself wanting to wretch, imagining this group of men. At least, he guessed they were men. Their two spokespeople, one of them the very man who had pretended to take care of him, had voices easily identifiable as male. He imagined them staring down at him with lustful hunger in their eyes, their sin so much like those whom Jiao-long had frequently been forced to kill. They wanted him for his body - but not to rape, not to obtain that baser sexual need from his small limbs. No, they wanted to break him, wanted to feel him angry and trembling at their feet. The sheer satisfaction he could feel in every kick, every small movement, the sound of feral _need_ dripping from their voices as they threatened him. The small things, turning to big things, branching and twisting and boiling into a frenzied attack that charged the air like electricity. These men were predators, and Jiao-long knew without so much as a thought that he was exactly the same.

Quirking his lips into a defiant smirk, which made the air go still and cold as the men must have found in them a sense of derision for the expression, Jiao-long turned his face toward the voice that had spoken to him, and hesitated for timing. It was a game, all an elaborate performance that they each played a role in. The victim, the killer, the rapist, the devil in disguise, the reaper, the nutcase...Jiao-long ticked them off in his mind, as he'd seen them. And where was their bold leader? The one with the tired eyes.

"Call me by my _name_, you _fuckers_!" Jiao-long spat, earning a swift kick to his side, as he rolled away from the predicted trajectory and received the brunt of the movement to his muscles. Bruises didn't heal as well when they fixed him up...that one was going to hurt. A sound from the direction he knew the devil was, his sometime saviour, and Jiao-long ticked off the placements of everyone else. They should know better than to let his bonds loose, but they liked the game too much.

"I'm gettin' sick 'a hearin' 'is voice," the man drawled, and Jiao-long made a point of staying relaxed as he heard him move closer, the leaves crunching under his boots as he took up a position kneeling by Jiao-long's side. He looked up toward the man, offering him not even so much as a smirk. He didn't deserve it. Suddenly, the air around him flared up in intensity, a heat that was truly tangible, and Jiao-long rose in an instant, the men around him tackling him to the ground before he could begin to move and holding down his squirming body at all of his limbs. A sharp heat seared against the flesh of his exposed arm, and startled Jaio-long screamed, throwing his body against the hands that bound him. It burned into his skin, the nerves of the entire left side of his body screaming in agony as Jiao-long bit his cheek and shut the hell up. And just as suddenly it was replaced by a deep and stinging cold, colder than anything Jiao-long had ever felt. An iciness that bit into his skin and seemed to rip through it more viciously than even the fire had. Though each sensation only persisted for a moment, by the time Evander withdrew Jiao-long's entire body was spasming weakly, his mind refusing to communicate his muscles to move. His arm had been seared and cauterised, and then frostbitten into an ugly black mass that felt like a sloshing, dead weight as it shivered feebly with the tremors racking his body. Curling slightly into himself, Jiao-long squeezed his eyes shut, and felt every ounce of energy in his body relieve itself as he spewed upon the ground. The men stood back, and were silent.

"You do not speak unless spoken to." It was the first thing he'd heard in what felt like hours, the cold and helpless fear having settled in him and made his mind completely blank. What would it mean to survive this? What would it take to? The words penetrated his mind like a spike, his swimming head receiving the information and not even needing to process it. The words that signalled they were pausing, the words he'd heard a thousand times already. They were associated with pain, with weakness, with absolute desperate need.

"You act with purpose and deliberate immediacy."

"You do not question authority."

The spinning phrases were overlapping each other, as each man provided one rule, one demand, one more law Jiao-long knew they all lived by.

"You do not kill unnecessarily."

"You live and die solely for the company."

"If ya fight, ya fight ta kill." 

"You do not speak of your fellows, or yourself."

Jiao-long felt more than heard the last man, their second spokesman, come to kneel by him, his aura invading what was left of Jiao-long's sense of personal space as he bent close and spoke against his cheek.

"Everything you do, everything you know," the voices were joining, a chorus that spoke out the last truths Jiao-long could ever believe, "everything you are...is ours now." The dropping of a gavel, the sudden dying of the winds, the sharp breath before the kill...and somehow, Jiao-long knew that this moment, this breath, the trembling of his body, the cold that made him sweat, the feeling that those around him were a part of him, stifling, cutting off all ability to breathe, to move, to think...this was it. This was, matter-of-factly, everything.

"Say it." Had those words even been spoken? Had the man whose hot breath skimmed across Jiao-long's face like a torrent uttered a single syllable? Or was it all just the wind, his mind playing elaborate tricks on him? He was too afraid to question it. He spoke.

"You do not speak...unless spoken to," he began, his words foreign to him, their accent punctuating amid the slurring syllables, "You act...with purpose...and deliberate...immediacy." The man near him moved back, but Jiao-long still felt him, felt him like he felt them all around him and within him. "You do not...question...authority." The shivering was intensifying, as he forced himself to breathe, as he realised he did not even think about the movement of his lips reciting the words that were all that was left of his being now. "You do not kill...unnecessarily." Blood and vomit was still stagnant on his lips, in his mouth and his nose, and it tickled him as he focused each breath into a phrase. "You live...and die...solely for the...company." They were still around him, weren't they? They were there, yes. They felt like a hive of bees, constantly in motion in his spinning mind, one part of him that seemed so frantic and yet so still and peaceful. "If you...fight...you fight to kill." Spinning, spinning, making him sick, deadly sick, his only ground in a sea of nothingness. And they were closer now, he knew. They were everywhere around him, pulling him taut while touching him gently, one hand on his hair, another on his hip, one on his decaying shoulder, his knee, his back, his stomach, holding his chin still, his mind stable, his hand like a caring parent and his neck like an executioner. "You do not...speak of..." the words tripped over his tongue, breathy and meaningless, all of his existence, "your fellows...or yourself..."

Like the humming of a prayer, Jiao-long heard their voices rise to meet his own, whispers of men that spoke of something more solemn than anyone could ever understand. This was life, this was the life they had brought him into, made him of. In one single day these men had torn him apart and sewn him back together more literally than the gods themselves, made him whole as he never had been, one piece of a thing that was so much greater than Jiao-long himself. Something smaller, something more significant, and yet somehow Jiao-long knew that this was only the beginning.

"Everything you do..."

Pain.

"Everything you know..."

Devotion.

Everything you are..."

Placidity.

"Is ours now."


	3. Chapter 3: Bindi

One day. One day was all they seemed to like to give him, in this place. One day of torture, one day of rest. One day to sleep for more than a few hours, spread out, curled up, fidgeting and wincing across the makeshift bed in this small room.

But it was better than anything Jiao-long had ever had, and he knew it, and he wasn't going to complain. He was going to attempt - and fail - to sleep, and lay awake wondering what they were going to do to him next. As the sun fell, as it rose, as the day passed around him, soft voices barely muffled by the thin walls of his room. They even shut the door, as if it made a difference for them. Jiao-long knew better; they were watching him anyway.

It was evening again before they came to fetch him, not even bothering to knock. Two men, flanked by a woman with long, luxurious black hair, strode into his room, and Jiao-long forced himself to sit up for them. Only one of these people did he recognise, the one who kept his eyes down, pointedly avoiding looking at him as he glared in his direction. The woman, whose expression of haughty amusement was rivalled only by Evander's, seemed to take up the most space. She entered with both hands on her hips, seeming to tower over the other two men, who carried in a suit identical to the ones they were each wearing and placed it near Jiao-long's bed.

"How are you feeling?" Jiao-long's eyes shot up from watching the men to their female counterpart, and he merely glared at her. She laughed derisively under her breath after a moment, and leaned down to him, apparently trying to intimidate him. Jiao-long wasn't impressed, and showed it.

"You know, you little runt," she spoke lowly to him, the elitism dripping from her voice, "I'm shocked you even made it through the first night. Congratu-fucking-lations." Without warning, she suddenly spat at him, the gesture landing on his cheek and making him flinch. Her smile broadened, and she didn't bother to move back, as the men to their side stood in perfect stance, seeming to not notice. Jiao-long glanced at them, and then slowly wiped the saliva from his face. Fuck, he hated people...

Stupidly, a reaction, he lunged at the woman with a loud cry, and in seconds his room was filled to the brim with suited men. One of them lauched a kick into his still-bruised ribs, and it took everything in Jiao-long not to wretch as he doubled over in pain.

"Leave him the fuck alone!" The devil, the saving voice Jiao-long had learned to hate, rang out through his room as the sea of people parted, each one relaxing minutely from their offensive postures. He made his way up to Jiao-long's bed, and turned round to glare at them all. " 'Is twenty-four ain't even up, fuck!"

"Got a weakness for the spick, Eva?" someone chimed up, and the room seemed to laugh softly as one, knowing every innuendo behind this. Evander steamed, and tensed; Jiao-long could see the minute muscle reaction from his spot at the man's feet, and forced himself up again, sending his dark glare around the room. Were they going to fight? Was that even allowed?

"What's going on here?" Like a cue had been struck, every single body in the room went instantly from their postures of attack to a perfect standing salute, hands at their sides, feet shoulder-width, chins tucked, and as one recited a single salute.

"Sir!"

Jiao-long shifted back some, determined not to show this next arrival any sign of previous weakness. He had to give someone an impression of it, after all. Imagine his disappointment when the man who walked through that door, stooping just slightly under the low frame as he entered, was one who most certainly already knew. _The man with the tired eyes..._

Veld stopped for a moment just within the room, looking around almost disinterestedly at those who had rushed to the aid of the woman now standing just like the rest of them in one corner. Eventually that gaze reached Jiao-long, and stopped on him, the smallest frown passing his lips, before they tilted into a minute smirk.

"I should have known..." he uttered, before turning instantly back to the room. "Alright, all of you idiots. Reevaluate your priorities, for Shiva's sake. Was it really worth it to waste your energy coming to Marie's rescue? Or am I really going to have to start thinking the lot of you racist bastards?" They said nothing, moved not a centimetre, not a one of them showing any reaction to his words. His gaze slowly came back to Jiao-long, and for a second they gazed at each other, Jiao-long once more imitating the man's expression. This time, his eyes showed a small gesture in return, a tiny sign of acknowledgement.

"Out." A single word, and every one of them moved from their perfect posture and headed for the door. But Veld stopped Evander with a hand on his chest, and the man's teal eyes turned up to meet his own dark brown, before he stood back in posture once more. "Evander, take the boy, get his hair cut and his mannerisms cleaned up. You have four hours until training commences." There was a moment of silence, during which Evander nodded, and that minute smile reflected in Veld's eyes once more. _I trust you_, it said. Jiao-long caught himself overanalysing it, and let the thought pass. And then they were alone, and Evander sighed, and turned to glare at him like a parent.

"You stupid fuck," he said, tilting his head as he rolled his eyes and left the room. "Come on, grab your suit and let's get that hair cut. You're a Turk now, it's about time you look like it."

Two hours and three disgruntled science department women later, Jiao-long was sitting in a chair fidgeting with his newly tied tie while Evander wasn't looking. What a stuffy outfit! They expected him to do what they did in it? He couldn't even imagine the physics of that! Why the outfits hadn't been torn to bits during some of those feats he couldn't fathom. But Evander looked so comfortable in his own, his tie and jacket discarded once more and his sleeves rolled up, his shirt even unbuttoned, as he worked at a vanity, organising the tools that had been used to make Jiao-long look the part he was playing today. Today?

A giggle emanated from the sofa on one end of the apartment, which had three rooms altogether, an oddity on this floor, and Jiao-long shot the noise a threatening glare.

"Daddy, he's playing with his tie again!"

"Goddamnit, Zheng." Before Jiao-long could think to move away, the man had come back to him and fixed the object, straightened it and tightened it to a degree Jiao-long was sure he was only doing to annoy him. He glared again, but Evander didn't seem to notice. "If ya stop thinkin' about it it'll be 'lot less 'nnoying. Ya such an idiot..." Moving back to his previous work, he sighed once more, and Jiao-long spent a moment sharing evil looks with the flame-haired child flipping him off from the couch.

"Ya know, Zheng, y'oughta make a point o' stoppin' people callin' ya names like that." Jiao-long had begun to hate the sound of his last name, Evander was saying it so often. Why was that? When before he'd used both of his names, which seemed proper. He was the only person during his session of beatings who hadn't insulted him with a racial slur, either, Jiao-long realised offhandedly.

"B'cause if ya fo'get..." Jiao-long heard the man's words like from some sort of distance, his eyes wandering, no longer interested in watching him work. His back was to him, anyway, there was no point. But as he was suddenly roused by the swift press of a finger against his forehead, he turned and frowned at Evander, who was smirking haughtily, one hand on his hip, the other floating in midair, fingertips painted with a queer crimson. Jiao-long made a move to swipe at his forehead, where Evander had touched him, but the man caught his wrist without a thought. "Ah-ah-ah, Zhengy," he chastised, and pulled the boy up to shove him in front of a mirror.

This was the first time Jiao-long had seen a mirror since he had left Wutai. Now, peering at his reflection in the glass, he had to pause. Was that...really what he looked like? They had cut his long, matted hair short against his head, the thick, gleaming strands of black standing on their end in a few places, making him look a little wild, a little like Evander. His eyes were large and black, beetle-like, as they stared back at him in unabashed wonder. And the mark on his forehead... Pulling his arm free of Evander's grasp, he lifted his fingers to it, brushing just below it, fearing to touch it. Evander bent down to speak in his ear.

"If ya forget, ya nothin'. Understand?"


	4. Chapter 4: On the Job

Jiao-long was still wondering whether they were fooling him. The day after his dressing had started early, his small body finding little sleep once more and being roused by the sound of the men in the hallway. One of them had kicked his door, told him to "Hurry up and get your chink ass out here!" But Jiao-long ignored him, burying his face into his pillow. That was, until a pair of men burst into his room, picking him up and throwing him at his suit, which was folded neatly into the corner - just as Evander had taught him.

"Didn't I just say get the fuck up!" the same man reiterated, pointing toward the suit. "Get up, get dressed, you're already way behind schedule and we ain't gonna wait all morning for you." Jiao-long turned a glare over his shoulder at the man, who he recognised now as the second of the lackeys who had accompanied Marie the previous day. Slowly, just to be irksome, he rose to his feet and started dressing. It only took a moment for those rough hands to be on him again, shoving him back against the wall and fidgeting him into his uniform. The buttons were done in the span of time it took Jiao-long to blink, and that in itself was enough to make him start into reality. Pulling away from those swift fingers, he made his way much quicker into the rest of the suit, doing his best not to wince in pain. The man stood back and let him, coming forward only to help him with his tie until he was finished.

"Much better," he'd said, then, and taking Jiao-long's arm even as he was zipping up his jacket dragged him into the hallway to line up with the rest of the Turks.

The day started out with lines. The men lined up shoulder-to-shoulder in one neat row, then broke rank to create another formation, then another. This occurred for a few minutes, the formations switching up so fast with such intricate footwork that it was like a dance. Jiao-long was stepped on and brushed by so many times he became dizzy. Following, without warning, the men broke off, and jogged laps. Ten around the floor itself, in a set pattern, and then to the side-stairs, which for the most part were unknown to any but the Turks themselves. They went all the way down, and then all the way back up. Fourty-two floors, eighty-four flights of stairs, each run twice. Jiao-long found himself wondering as his mind began to swim from lack of oxygen how the people in the building weren't disturbed by twenty grown people doing laps on the stairs. And then faintly, as he stumbled, he realised he couldn't hear the other men's footsteps.

Someone had dragged him back up the stairs after them, and he was set against the wall as the rest of them did stretches. Each one had their own regimen, and Jiao-long took note as he watched them. He would have to do this with them, then. Every morning, every day. His memory was good, he could watch and learn. It was his small body he was worried about, whether it really could keep up with the others or not, and what it would mean if he couldn't. He shivered, remembering the searing pain, the sense of desolate peace as he hoped he was dying, the actions they'd performed just days before. It would be more of that, he was sure without a doubt.

Once they'd finished, they lined up to be checked one last time, and were dismissed. As the others parted for their duties, Evander approached him, and offered his hand.

"Ya heavier than ya look," he said with a half-smirk of indignation, and Jiao-long blinked at him in what he hoped was gratitude. He ignored the hand, however, and stepped past the man. Evander laughed softly. "Okay, su' 'chaself." Shaking his head, he moved forward, and Jiao-long followed him without a word.

The rest of the morning had been spent on a tour of the building. They used the elevators this time, starting at the bottom floor and moving up. It seemed that someone higher than they were had assigned Evander officially to him, as when people asked after Jiao-long he responded by introducing him as "my new recruit." Jiao-long couldn't remember ever being claimed before, and found himself somewhat indignant against the idea of this man being the one to do so. However, the reality was that there were much worse candidates, so he was in the end glad to concede to this fate.

In the next few hours, they'd seen the information desk, brushed by the lower levels, bypassed the floor they all lived on, stopped at the security check on the 60th floor, and eventually made their slow way up each of the following levels. Jiao-long listened intently as the function of each one was introduced to him, as he'd been told these would be where he would be working for the next few years. Newer Turks didn't do missions outside the building, Evander explained. Not until they were ready.

The 61st floor was low-key, a lounge floor where a few of the people he'd seen living in the quarters with him seemed to be enjoying breaks. The sixty-second was of a great deal more interest. Evander hurried him around to each of the rooms here, introducing him to a few people they passed. This floor was filled with libraries, records and histories, all the things that might be needed within the building. Here, too, was the office for the Public Order/Weapon's Division, which Evander seemed to sidestep, mentioning only that he would meet the people who ran things later, once he'd had some more training. Also, there was a Scientific Research office, Space Development office, and the Mayor's office. Seeing this, Jiao-long had stopped briefly, to wonder how he'd never even thought there could be a mayor over a place like this. It seemed so very run by the insipid parts of the government that the idea had never even occurred to him, nor many people below-plate. But Evander moved them up quickly, and he was forced to store the thought for later.

Up two more flights of stairs ("Oh, you don't need to care about level 63, it's just storage and stuff.")and Jiao-long was surprised to see a large gathering of the people he had gotten used to hating. This seemed to be where the Turks hung out, when they were off duty. The twin, wolflike men who Tseng hadn't seen too much of were spending some time in the gymnasium, as a scantily-clad Marie scowled at him as she passed him on her way out of the locker rooms.

"We share locka's. She hates it," Evander whispered to him as she upturned her nose at the man, passing him without so much as a greeting. Chuckling lowly to himself, he spoke up, and led Jiao-long off once more.

The 65th floor was passed by without entry, as Evander explained one had to have duty on that floor to gain access. It was one of the upper floors of the Science Department, shared with Urban Development, and the man expressed relief that he wasn't usually on duty there as they made their way upstairs. The sixty-sixth floor was much more important, and Evander led him around it with much greater care.

"This is where the big-wigs 'ave their shindigs. Ya gotcha conference room, an' the office party room. Don' ask, ya don' wanna know. They like ya to be on watch outside an' such," he explained, stopping to indicate the vents in the ceiling and the many windows on the floor. "An' all these are highly dangerous areas, easily infiltrated. Ya wanna take a real good look a' this floor, get ta know it before ya get on duty 'ere. Unda'stand?" He didn't wait for an answer before moving on, and Jiao-long only took one more glance before moving after him.

The sixty-seventh and sixty-eighth floors were bypassed as well, for the same reason as the 65th. "Science Department" seemed to be an excuse for a lot here. "There's a lift connects it ta the next floor up, though. In case of emergency. Only goes up, an' sets off an alarm if ya get in it. Reason for that is," he explained as he opened the door to the next floor up (which was apparently only accessible by the stairs) and Jiao-long was somewhat struck by the sudden openness before him, "_we_ live up here."

"Welcome," Evander introduced with a wide gesture to their surroundings, "ta Headquarters." Jiao-long had stopped just outside the elevator, and cast his dark gaze around him at the various people, lined across desks situated throughout the floor. There were no walls between them, no cubicles, though they each seemed to work in oblivousness of each other, respecting one another's space. All of them cast him a glance, however, as he stared at them. He'd not gotten a good look at them until now, and so was memorising them. His gaze soon fell to the stairs on either side of the room, but before he could ask about them Evander was leading him forward again.

"Zheng, 's 'bout time ya got int'a'duced. This here is Jet," he said, gesturing to a large bald man who was kicked back in his own chair, feet upon his table as he read a newspaper. He gave Jiao-long a jerky head nod, to which Jiao-long just blinked. This one he recognised, and easily so; he was the one with the scar. The entire right side of his face was scarred, mutilated, his right eye shut and lascerations even visible on the top of his head, though they looked much more orderly, as if they'd been able to be sewn closed while they healed. The man went back to reading as Evander moved on. "I'm sure ya met Marie," he said, giving her a bright, honest smile as she gave Jiao-long her most rotten, fake one. The woman was dressed and back to work, it seemed. She must have gotten ahead of them at some point.

"Downstairs was Biggie and Smallie, they're the twins, good guys really, jes look a li'l scary." He said this as he passed a set of chairs arranged closer than the others, assumedly theirs. "Kunsel," he introduced as he bypassed a chair, and the younger man stood, bowing formally to Jiao-long. Apologetically. Jiao-long actually spared him a sympathetic look as he glanced back, knowing he was the one he kept seeing everywhere, who was so beat-up upon. As he sat, Jiao-long gazed once more over the small group of faces, tuning out Evander for a short time. He made a mental note to ask about the stairs when the man was finished. And what he would be doing from now on.

"...And this is Veld, ya met 'im," is when Jiao-long began listening again, and turning his eyes toward Evander's voice met the honey gaze of the man he'd come to hate the most. At the moment, he was offering the boy a small smile, which this time was not returned.

"Hello, Seng," Veld greeted, moving forward and eyeing Evander, who snapped to attention like the trained creature he was. "I'll take it from here."

"Sir," was all the man said, before retiring to his own desk next to Kunsel. Jiao-long watched him go for a moment, before turning back to the man before him, who was watching him patiently.

"Good to see you, Seng," the man said to him, honesty in his voice and demeanour. For a moment, Jiao-long remembered why he'd found an instant respect for this man. But that moment passed, and instead he stored the new pronunciation of his name (of which he was getting quite the collection), returning the man's gaze tiredly. Blankly. With a nod, Veld led him back to the desks, where an empty one near the end of the row sat. "Do you know how to use a computer?" Jiao-long shook his head.

"What about math?" Jiao-long hesitated, and then nodded a little. "Good. And reading, writing? How are you with those?" At that, Jiao-long looked up at him mildly, as if to ask if he was serious about these questions. For what purpose, he didn't know, but the man just nodded back, and sat him down. "Alright, you're going to work with Marko. He'll teach you the basics, and I expect you to be up to speed within the week. It's intense, but I trust you can do it." _Trust_. Jiao-long's eyebrows shot up at that. No one, and he'd paid attention, had used that word with him yet. Perhaps it was just the way the man spoke? But no...he'd meant it. Saying nothing, Jiao-long took a seat where he'd been indicated, and at the same time a pile of papers fell onto the desk before him, a sprightly younger man falling into the chair nearest him at the same time. Jiao-long looked up quickly, and narrowed his eyes.

"Morning, Ching-chong," the man said, the smile on his face so much like a cat who'd caught his prey that Jiao-long's stomach turned over. "Like the dot," he said, gesturing fast to it as if he would poke it, and making Jiao-long cringe. He laughed as he pulled back, and started laying papers out. "That for snipers? Handy." Jiao-long stayed silent, only watching him, and felt a hand on his shoulder.

"If he gets on your nerves," Veld said lowly in his ear, "just bring up the goldfish." With a few pats to that shoulder, the man left with nothing but a "Good luck!", and Jiao-long watched him go with a gaze not short of desperation. A smack on his wrist brought him suddenly back to the pile of papers before him, and without further ado, the man with the insipid smile went to work. Briefly, Jiao-long wondered if, in his wildest dreams, he would ever have thought he'd been in this sort of situation. The answer was no, but at least he'd learned something. So, then...this was what it was like to be on top.


	5. Interlude: Finality

Please note that this did not actually happen in the timeline of the story "Pathos", it is merely using the story's content and setting.

------

It was cold down here, in a way that went deeper than the feeling of temperature against his skin. Something almost dank that seeped and crawled so deep into him, into his bones and his very soul, that he felt he could never shake himself of it. It made him sick, in the most sincere way, and was the only thing he could honestly say he still detested.

Yet he had found himself in the place once more, when the news of the man's death had made him think, for just a moment, that he may not ever have to do it again. It was the words of the obstinate blond that bade him return, however, and was the only reason he would do so.

"Boss, there's nothin' down here but dust and mako. Swear." Tseng canted his head just slightly, beetle-black eyes unexpressive as he trailed his fingertips in a layer of dark grey filth. He withdrew his hand slowly, and smelled - then tasted - the substance. Reno appeared by him noiselessly.

"Ugh, don' tell me ya tastin' the shit," he said as he passed the other, a placid figure against his constant restless movement. "You a' one sick fuck." Tseng said nothing, and after a moment Reno laughed softly at his own hypocritical statement. The man was in love with his voice, and Tseng had gotten used to it over the years. Turning back to the steel counter, he placed his palm flush against the cold metal, and closed his eyes.

Something happened. A split second passed in a whirling sense of vertigo, and by the time Tseng had so much as thought to open his eyes, it had stopped, the moment over. He was exactly where he had been, his hand pressed still against the cold steel beneath him. There was only one problem: there was no dust.

Brow furrowing, Tseng turned around quickly and reached out to his surroundings, sensing nothing. Wherever he was, he was alone. Obsidian eyes gleamed in the low lighting, which was unchanged except for a sharp buzzing that emanated from the bulbs themselves. And silently, Tseng shifted his feet, and began his slow, quiet way back up the stairs. He encountered no one, no sign of life in all of the basement room - though he could almost say he sensed something dark and dangerous in an adjacent room made of tinted bulletproof glass, which had been open when he and Reno had come down, but was closed now. It was of little concern to him, however. His first priority was figuring out where exactly he was.

It took him little time to slip past the scientists, who were not of much consequence - though he did realise he didn't recognise a single one of them. What was odd, however, wasn't this - it was their very existence. When the main building had been destroyed, nearly all of the scientists had been killed, including the ones working on the top-secret projects in the basement, and rubble had actually made it down into the place Tseng was standing in now. The building had been decimated and nearly impossible to get into.

Tseng had some idea of what may have happened, and found himself suddenly concerned. Hojo was known for playing with things beyond his sphere, but this was more than unacceptable. He found himself wondering if the man had used this particular power before, and the very idea made his stomach roil. To be sure, there were a few things he felt he could use to verify the situation, before he could examine at what angle to correct it. Perhaps the effects would wear off in time - a reasonable guess, all things considered, but one of which Tseng couldn't be sure. At this point, his best plan of action was to examine his surroundings, verify the problem, and seek out a solution.

Making his silent way upstairs, he moved quickly to the side-stairs with little more than a scan of his surroundings. A few of _these_ people he recognised, and that fact unnerved him even more than the scientists had. As he slipped into the stairwell, he heard a few soft voices ask if their companions had seen a shadow, or a ghost, and frowned some, realising they must indeed be able to see him. To what extent, he didn't yet know, but it was reasonable to assume his level of caution couldn't risk being compromised. There were many pieces to this puzzle, and as he made his quiet way up the stairs, he did his best to place them together into some semblance of order, figuring which would be the best next step. Calculating, that's what people usually called him. It was mere strategy; he was used to it.

The fourty-second floor. A gleaming metal plaque marked the door to it, and Tseng stopped to examine it, running one finger around its edge. It was fairly new, but had managed to gather some grime around it, which meant it was from the period of time when the stairwell was still being maintained. That fact in itself narrowed it down a few more years, and Tseng frowned again, wondering if they key card in his pocket would even work. If not, there would be another trek downstairs in store, and a lot bigger risk getting hold of one.

Cautiously, he opened the door, grateful to know his card wasn't void, dark eyes taking in his surroundings in a flash. The floor was mostly empty, except for a single room. There were voices coming from this room, voices that, though soft, he would recognise anywhere.

" 'S been less than a week, ya sure about this?" Tseng moved into the main hallway, feet dancing lightly over the ruby carpet, silent, more silent even than most of these men could be. That single voice gave away everything, the entirety of the puzzle falling into place. He knew this hall, knew where each creak and snap was - he'd grown up here. Here, in this room he stopped outside, where three men stood speaking lowly to one another, as a few more moved around, cleaning up.

"I'm not questioning the timing," a more mature voice broke in, the slight shifting of expensive fabric telling the uneasy movement of the first speaker. Tseng's nose twitched, reacting to the dark, rich scent of the third man's cigar. He had always smoked them when he was on the floor, and now he knew why this room had smelled of them his first night. Someone cleared their throat, and there was a pause.

"I know." A resolute answer. Finality, everything he'd come to associate with the man. Something in Tseng twinged hearing the pain in his voice. It was so unlike him. From inside the room, the man sighed. "Jes...neva feels righ'." A low chuckle broke from the man with the cigar, and there was another soft sigh of fabric. One of the people cleaning up headed toward the door, and Tseng darted noiselessly into a room across the hall. He heard the young man hesitate, take a few slow steps toward the room he'd found refuge in. Instantly, Tseng's trained mind began to analyse his situation. There were no places to hide in these rooms, and for damned good reason. He would have to distract him, or outright run. He knew he could at least escape this small creature, and might be able to get enough head to slip by the others. It was probably his best shot. Another step, and Tseng tensed, ready to run.

"Kunsel!" He was so alert that he nearly bolted, but managed to catch himself, hearing the gasp of the young man in the hall. "Where the hell you think ya goin' wi'that?" The young man stuttered, clearly intimidated by just the man's presence.

"I, well...sir, it's just I...I thought I-"

"You thought? Yeah, I know whatcha thought. Now gi'cha pampered ass back 'ere 'fore I_ think_ ya desertin'." One last wary glance to the room, and Kunsel scampered back with a soft, obedient "Yes, sir." Tseng relaxed. The older man hesitated, before turning back to the room, and Tseng took his chance to dart out of his own room and down the hallway, around a corner he could easily escape from. There was another pause, as the other two men joined the first in the hallway, and Tseng closed his eyes, taking in their scents, their small sounds, their presences. They were his family, his only companions, and though he'd trained all emotion he might have toward them out of himself long ago, he still...missed them. There was a certain comfort in the certainty of events. This was the past, _his_ past. These were the men and women who had raised him, had been tutors, mentors, fathers, rapists, abusers, victimisers, his personal daemons...they were all he knew, everything he had come from. And they were all going to die. But first...

"Boys, line up!" the sharp voice of the leader he'd replaced rang out, and the sound of soft, trained steps followed it, short and quick before they ceased suddenly. Veld's own steps were as silent as Tseng's, and he paced down the line, and then back up, before stopping in the middle, feet set shoulder-width, hands clasped neatly before him. Tseng could practically ifeel/i the man's characteristic smirk.

"Let's go fishing."

Tseng's heart stopped. Time seemed to slow for the moment that they rang out their trained response, and he made his way back down the stairs. It was the blink of an eye, that seemed to last forever. As he waited at the base of the stairs, uncertain as to what he should do now...he reminisced. He'd never done anything of the sort before, and it was an odd occurrence. Reliving memories of feeling, of his past, of the day they'd hunted him down like a scared rabbit, brought him in. They'd tortured him, trained him, taught him, this group of men and women he'd learned to hate more than anything in the world. His entire life, here in this building. Slowly, he stepped outside, and moved back to gaze up at the expanse of ShinRa Headquarters, the view from the bottom that so very few were ever privileged to. A multitude more memories accompanied this view. The looming building on his return from Wutai, killing those he might once have called compatriot. The sense of rightness, of belonging, as he made his way back up those stairs. The slow years following, of stalking SOLDIER, of protecting Rufus. And then the fateful day...the day the last of his mentors had died. Screaming, collapsing, fire and shards of metal chasing him down the stairs. The resolute feeling of resignment as meteor crashed down upon them...and they survived. They'd survived so much already, it seemed impossible. And now, now when the world was over again, made fresh, and ShinRa was rebuilding, though from the sidelines now...what was there left? All this life. He'd lived it once...would he be forced to live it again, returned to this time, this place...

Tseng frowned. The wind had grown somewhat stronger in the past few moments, whipping his long hair and his suit like the warning gale of a storm. Dark eyes turned up to the sky, the churning, toxic purple-black he'd learned quickly not to question. In a moment of pause, he recalibrated, measuring the wind, the sense of gravity that day, the feel of the world, slightly different than what he was used to. And without another thought, he made his way to the edge of the plate, and began his descent.

The Turks themselves had been impressed with the young man who had grown so quickly under their tutelage. He was swifter, smarter, deadlier than any of them, and they had grown to fear it somewhere deep inside. If they were monsters, Tseng was the devil himself. It took him mere moments to let his lithe body down the plate, the unfinished platforms and supports, wires and old scaffolding providing more grips than he needed. When he landed on his feet on the hard, dusty ground of below-plate, he straightened his suit, swept back his hair, and ignored the openmouthed stares of the small group of homeless people who had watched him for the past few minutes. He was a man with a purpose, and these people knew Turk when they saw it. Standing back in his wake, they said nothing, waiting until after he'd passed to whisper among themselves. There was a tiny glimmer of pride in that, and Tseng shivered. _Feeling_. He was ready.

By the time Tseng's swift footsteps led him to the inner part of the sector, the chase had already begun. A small boy, his dark hair long and matted, his gleaming black eyes narrowed in concentration, darted through buildings and alleyways like a cat on the run. Quiet footsteps chased after him, the occasional stop to recollect positions made before they were off once more. The boy was getting tired, but he knew these streets, knew them better than the suits who pursued him as if their lives depended on it. As if ihe/i were a national threat. How ironically true.

He was putting up quite a good show, too. They had found him guilty in the murder of three thugs, this small child of undeterminable age, though he couldn't be more than ten. He'd mutilated them, their deaths swift and gruesome, and one of them... They never mentioned that one again. Tseng stopped behing a building, listening to the man he'd heard rallying his troops earlier cry out in frustration.

"He's a kid, for fuck's sake! Just find him!"

No hesitation, the daemon assassins chiming a perfect "Yes, sir!" as one, before breaking off once more. Veld moved slower, stalking the child, listening, sensing. One man stepped into an alleyway, looking cautiously around...and Tseng closed his eyes. He envisioned those feet, watched from a small hole in a building, saw them step once toward him, once to the side. The man turned some, and that catlike body sprung into action, landing neatly and rolling as if he'd been taught, darting between those legs and escaping. Running, running, desparate and weak. He hadn't fed in days. Tseng's hearbeat raced, raced with those feet, remembering, becoming one once more with the child. One with this version of himself. He couldn't catch his breath, there was no time for that. His small body was pulsing, chilled, as his heart cried out, and Tseng felt his hand move of its own accord, metal warmed by the proximity to his unnaturally cool skin brushing his fingertips, taken into his hand. It lasted a second, but he felt everything. The dust kicked up by Evander's feet as he turned swiftly and took the lead after the boy. His fingers closing around the grip of the gun, trained, swift, perfect. The rustle of his suit, silent against the sudden commotion of ten Turks turning heel and chasing after this boy, this tiger cub, more dangerous and deadly than some of them. And his dark body, eyes of onyx, turning from around the corner of that building, the gun trained, his aim perfect. There was a moment, when two sets of beetle-black eyes met, the fear in the younger reflected in the apathetic, unreal gleam of the elder. And with one single shot,

it was over.


	6. Chapter 5: Pieces of Scum

"Why doesn't anyone respect me?" As the man spoke, Jiao-long spared him a passing glance, before returning to his work. In his opinion, the young, obnoxious Kunsel talked too much. Then again, by his perception, the entire world was filled with people who talked too much. "Really. What's up with that?" There was a short pause, during which the rest of the room seemed to sigh in indignation. It seemed they'd heard enough from the young man, too. Evander, however, must have found him more interesting than whatever the newest happenings were, as he abandoned his newspaper and sat back in his chair, lazily munching his sandwich as he listened to the man rant. Kunsel clicked his tongue, his suit rustling noisily as he crossed his arms. "I mean, I'm a good guy. I come from a respectable background, which is more than most of the Turks can say. I got _in_ here initially because of my skills, and in case that isn't enough I've proven myself time and time again. I just don't get it," he finished, sitting forward again with a sigh. Nobody said anything for a moment, as Evander sat masicating his sandwich, Tseng reviewing papers, and the other occupants of the room fairly well ignoring him. After a long moment, Evander spoke up.

"Y'eva think it might be y'all high 'n' mighty 'n' shit?" Kunsel stared at him as if he'd just told him his father was dead. Evander just watched him. The younger man cleared his throat.

"Well, I never really thought -"

"I's jes' you're a privileged peice o' scum," Evander said, sitting forward again and gesturing down to illustarete the finality of his statement. "Tha's all. Jes scum wi' money, an' a false name, an' a pretty face. We all scum 'ere," he provided with an all-encompassing sweeping of his hand. " 'S jes' Tseng's got slanty eyes, I talk like a Junon, the twins know Judo, Marie's a bitch. We're all scum 'ere, all equals. So stop thinkin' y'aint, and maybe people start showin' ya some respec'." He sat back, then, watching the younger man, a look on his face as if he'd just explained the simplest part of life to a child. Finality.

It was this sort of finality Jiao-long recalled with painful clarity as he watched Kunsel fall to the ground and not get back up. The men surrounding him stepped back as one, and Jiao-long fought the urge to do so himself. Though he stood behind the glass, in proper stance next to the tall man with the tired eyes, who he had only recently begun to call by his name in his mind, he felt still as if he were in that room. The atmosphere of pain, of anger, of pure adrenaline, was the same. Jiao-long started as Kunsel twitched, and coughed, and spat up blood. Not one of the men came to his aid, however, no one seemed to care as they watched him shiver on the ground. They couldn't, as much as some of them wanted to, their distress plain across the shadow of their eyes. This was it, this was the moment they'd been waiting for. If he stood, he would be a true Turk. If not...

When the elite few that were chosen for their sadistic tendencies, or cunning minds, or overall meanness and braun were first brought in, they were beaten mercilessly. Without warning, those selected would attack the newcomer, an unfair fight that many did not survive. They were subjected to torture of the worst degree they would ever experience - and Turks experienced a incredible amount of torture in their time of service. If they lived, they were brought in, given their suit, and trained to deadly perfection. If not, they had aready been brought in on criminal charges, and so it was written off as an execution for their crimes, and never again thought of again. These men and women would endure anything from quiet days at the office, to on-site backup at missions, to gruelling physical exercise regimes. Many would even suffer through a massive amount of abuse on the part of those around them, if only to toughen their hides. Once these peoples' time of training had reached its peak, they were then fought once more by all the present Turks. This time, they were given the chance to fight back, to prove themselves against all the others, who fought with all the deadly precision of their profession. It was the Turk way. If you couldn't make it against your family, you would never make it against your enemies.

Jiao-long remembered Evander explaining all of this to him, his young spawn sprawled over the back of the couch listening in rapt interest for his own future, just as clearly as he remembered the man's chastisement. He remembered him rattling off the details like a veteran as they walked single-file down the stairs to the Turks' simulation and training rooms. That Kunsel would have to prove himself as a man and as a Turk, or he would die. The qualifications were simple, and appeared unimportant to those outside the professional circle. A basic literacy test. A timed dressing, being able to put on one's suit in less than sixty seconds (rumour had it they were going to increase it to sixty for both putting it on and taking it off). Timed disassembly, cleaning, and assembly of a handgun and a rifle. A basic run through the simulation room. Recitation of the Turk Code of Conduct. And lastly, the proper initiation. The fair fight, and the final decision.

As Kunsel lay there, helpless, broken, his glasses long gone, face broken and bruised, suit hiding the rest of the damage that had been done to him (spare a few dark spots to indicate blood), Jiao-long felt more helpless than he had during his entire service. He'd been beaten, demeaned, tortured, frightened, cornered, threatened, endured the very first tastes of the demanding daily regimen of his new position, but nothing, _nothing_ could have prepared him for this.

"Are you ready?" he heard the man next to him speak, distantly, as if calling through the fog of a dream. There was a clarity in it, however, like a bright light among the mist that Jiao-long clung to desperately. He couldn't stand to see someone who had treated him so well were so few of those in the world, and even though the quiet, spoiled man had for the most part kept his eyes down around him, there was still too much familiarity. He didn't want to lose him, knew he too would break if he were forced to watch. Slowly, he forced his eyes up to the other man, who was watching the scene before them unfalteringly, and blinked his head clear. What did he mean? Was he ready?

"No...no, Sir, I'm not," he answered slowly, catching himself and adding the 'Sir'. That was something he'd really been working on this week, among the many tasks he was assigned to perfect each day. Veld nodded after a long moment, gaze unwavering, and said nothing. Hesitantly, feeling as if he had no choise, Jiao-long moved to look back as well. As ill as it made him, he knew he had to gain a stomach for it...somehow. How things had changed so much in a year that he could barely see gore without trembling he couldn't conceive. At this rate, there was no chance of him surviving his own initiation. Was it different because it was someone he knew? It shouldn't matter. It couldn't. People died in the field all the time. He would just have to get used to it.

Kunsel coughed again, a rough sound, and rolled onto his back. The release of tension in the room was so dramatic it felt like a lead hammer had dropped, as those nearest to him looked as if they were about to cry out in disappointment, the expressions of fear and sorrow plain on their faces. But quickly, before anyone could speak, he held up one hand, made a small gesture. They held their breaths. How would he get up now? Had he given up, and was merely too afraid to admit it?

Jiao-long felt a sudden pang in his chest. He'd never liked the man, but it still hurt so much. Distantly, he found himself praying, something he'd never done in his life. Please, Gaia, please let him get up. Please let him live. I couldn't stand to lose another one...

Time stopped. Jiao-long could swear he felt the shifting of the earth, as the entire room stilled, life itself coming down to the pinprick of the young man's heartbeat. The same hand that had gestured for patience moved down to press against the ground, one last struggle for life, as tears streaked the blood on Kunsel's face. He spasmed, and cringed, fighting to hold his breath in one last painful gulp, knowing just as well if not more keenly than the others what it meant if he failed in this movement. With one swift arch of his back, he threw himself forward on the ground, barely managing to catch himself on an arm that cracked as he landed. He cried out, but bit his tongue, eyes clenched shut in pure agony as that arm buckled, and he forced himself up onto his knees. Jiao-long felt his body move without his permission, flying to the force glass that separated them, and as Kunsel slipped one leg back and stood shakily, he heard his own cry rise against that of the new Turk. Evander and Marko came instantly to either side of him, taking his arms gently and hoisting him up. He had stood. He was alive.

Jiao-long's heart seemed to beat again, and helplessly he let his head fall against the glass before him. Quiet footsteps approached from behind, and the hand he was becoming so familiar with placed itself upon his shoulder. A year felt like eternity to him, and he was already becoming a thing of ShinRa, as if he had never known anything other than this life, this building, these men and women. His family. He sobbed softly, a wretched sound, and cursed himself.

"Do not weep for your fallen fellows," Veld said from behind him, his voice strong and unwavering as he watched the other Turks help Kunsel onto the stretcher that would take him to the medical wing, no questions asked. The doctors and nurses who treated them knew better. "They are each of them wretched men, and as humans will someday die." Jiao-long gasped a little, forcing himself to stand, and wiped at the tears. There was no trace of expression on his face, then, in that split second, his eyes glancing off the bloodstains on the floor, the reflection of his small form against that of his statuesque mentor, breathtaking, untouchable, unbreakable. His voice cracked as he spoke, and he forced it to match the steadiness of the other's.

"I'm not...familiar with that book, Sir. Or is it a play?" In the reflection, Jiao-long watched the man's lips upturn just a hair. He may not be very eloquent yet, but he was still damned good at reading people.

"No," Veld said evenly, just a trace of amusement in his voice. "Not a play, or a book for that matter. It's been paraphrased just slightly." Jiao-long turned his head sharply, obsidian eyes resting curious upon those of dark oak. Aged, ageless, and smiling.

"No, Sir? What is it?" He couldn't help himself. It was among his duties to be well versed, after all. That smile turned less humourous, and instantly more honest, a comforting softness coming over Veld's face as he watched the cleaning crew move in to dissolve all evidence of their brutal techniques. There was a certain reverent wonder in his voice when he spoke, as if he were displaying the utmost piece of irony, that even he was fascinated by. Like the perfect end to a story, in such an imperfect name.

"Evander."


End file.
